The structure isn’t just the shape,
The structure is the shifting shadow,
The sheets of light stretched diaphanously tight
And darkly folded over,
The bruises round the cheeks and pillows
Of silk moon lingers over,
Star-torn ribbons and summer walks
Along the shell-flung shores
Breakers bulging hurl
Aloft and eyes swim through, riding
The steep current, fluttering
Hawks hover
Along eyeing ground-bound fugitive
Pigeons and mice, dawdling
Man made in God’s image
Flawed and fallen image
Marble flung down on hailstone wings
Clattering orisons
On tin roofs and running down the gutters.
The space
Above all that space aslant the
Sky and its wreckage calls me
To tread those towers again.

I have loved the clouds since ever
I first became self-aware
And I will go on loving them till
There is nothing there.






I wanted something formless so clouds suggested themselves or rather I wanted to write something about clouds and formlessness suggested itself. The ending is a weak quatrain where form is so washed-out and thin it is hardly there.

25 April 2016


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